Clio, a Muse (Barnes & Noble Digital Library): And Other Essays Literary and Pedestrian

By G. M. Trevelyan

 “What is easy to read has been difficult to write,” Trevelyan declares in this 1913 volume. Clio: A Muse, and Other Essays, is a collection of Trevelyan’s clearly presented views on historical writing, as well as articles on George Meredith, the art of poetry, and John Woolman. The book concludes with the intriguing “If Napoleon had Won the Battle of Waterloo.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barnes & Noble
• Release date: Jun 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781411455313

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CLIO, A MUSE

And Other Essays Literary and Pedestrian

G. M. TREVELYAN

This 2011 edition published by Barnes & Noble, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

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ISBN: 978-1-4114-5531-3

CONTENTS

CLIO, A MUSE

WALKING

GEORGE MEREDITH

POETRY AND REBELLION

JOHN WOOLMAN, THE QUAKER

POOR MUGGLETON AND THE CLASSICS

THE MIDDLE MARCHES

IF NAPOLEON HAD WON THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO

Map of the Middle Marches

CLIO, A MUSE

THE last fifty years have witnessed great changes in the management of Clio's temple. Her inspired prophets and bards have passed away and been succeeded by the priests of an established church; the vulgar have been excluded from the Court of the Gentiles; doctrine has been defined; heretics have been excommunicated; and the tombs of the aforesaid prophets have been duly blackened by the new hierarchy. While these changes were in process the statue of the Muse was seen to wink an eye. Was it in approval, or in derision?

Two generations back, history was a part of our national literature, written by persons moving at large in the world of letters or politics. Among them were a few writers of genius, and many of remarkable talent, who did much to mould the thought and inspire the feeling of the day. Of recent years the popular influence of history has greatly diminished. The thought and feeling of the rising generation is but little affected by historians. History was, by her own friends, proclaimed a science for specialists, not literature for the common reader of books. And the common reader of books has accepted his discharge.

That is one half of the revolution. But fortunately that is not all. Whereas fifty years ago history had no standing in higher education, and even twenty years ago but little, today Clio is driving the classical Athene out of the field, as the popular Arts course in our Universities. The good results attained by University historical teaching, when brought to bear on the raw product of our public schools, is a great fact in modern education. But it means very hard work for the History Dons, who, in the time they can spare from these heavy educational tasks, must write the modern history books. Fifty years ago there were no such people; today they are a most important but sadly overworked class of men.

Such is the double aspect of the change in the status of history. The gain in the deeper, academic life of the nation must be set off against the loss in its wider, literary life. To ignore either is to be most partial. But must we always submit to the loss in order to secure the gain? Already during the last decade there are signs in the highest quarters of a reconciling process, of a synthesis of the scientific to the literary view of history. Streaks of whitewash have been observed on the tombs of those bards and prophets whose bones Professor Seeley burned twenty years ago. When no less an authority than Professor Firth thinks it worth while to edit Macaulay; when Mr. Gooch in his History of Historians can give an admirable appreciation of Carlyle, times are evidently changing a little in those high places whence ideas gradually filter down through educational England. Isis and Camus, reverend sires, foot it slow—but sure. It is then in no cantankerous spirit against the present generation of academic historians, but in all gratitude, admiration and personal friendship towards them, that I launch this delicate investigation into the character of history. What did the Muse mean when she winked?

These new History Schools, still at the formative period of their growth, are to the world of older learning what Western Canada is to England today. Settlers pour into the historical land of promise who, a generation back, would have striven for a livelihood in the older schools and triposes. The danger to new countries with a population rapidly increasing is lest life there grow up hastily into a raw materialism, a dead level of uniform ambition all directed to the mere acquisition of dollars. In the historical world the analogue of the almighty dollar is the crude document. If a student digs up a new document, he is happy, he has succeeded; if not, he is unhappy, he has failed. There is some danger that the overwhelming rush of immigrants into the new History Schools may cause us to lose some of the old culture and the great memories. But I hope that we shall not be forgetful of the Mother Country.

And who is the Mother Country to Anglo-Saxon historians? Some reply Germany, but others of us prefer to answer England. The methods and limitations of German learning presumably suit the Germans, but are certain to prove a strait waistcoat to English limbs and faculties. We ought to look to the free, popular, literary traditions of history in our own land. Until quite recent times, from the days of Clarendon down through Gibbon, Carlyle and Macaulay to Green and Lecky, historical writing was not merely the mutual conversation of scholars with one another, but was the means of spreading far and wide throughout all the reading classes a love and knowledge of history, an elevated and critical patriotism and certain qualities of mind and heart. But all that has been stopped, and an attempt has been made to drill us into so many Potsdam Guards of learning.

We cannot, however, decide this question on a mere point of patriotism. It is necessary to ask a priori whether the modern German or the old English ideal was the right one. It is necessary to ask, What is history and what is its use? We must gang o'er the fundamentals, as the old Scotch lady with the ear trumpet said so alarmingly to the new minister when he entered her room on his introductory visit. So I now ask, what is the object of the life of man quâ historian? Is it to know the past and enjoy it forever? Or is it to do one's duty to one's neighbour and cause him also to know the past? The answer to these theoretic questions must have practical effects on the teaching and learning, the writing and reading of history.

The root questions can be put in these terms:—"Ought history to be merely the Accumulation of facts about the past? Or ought it also to be the Interpretation of facts about the past? Or, one step further, ought it to be not merely the Accumulation and Interpretation of facts, but also the Exposition of these facts and opinions in their full emotional and intellectual value to a wide public by the difficult art of literature?"

The words in italics raise another question which can be put thus:—

Ought emotion to be excluded from history on the ground that history deals only with the science of cause and effect in human affairs?

It will be well to begin the discussion by considering the alleged science of cause and effect in human affairs. This alleged science does not exist, and cannot ever exist in any degree of accuracy remotely deserving to be described by the word science. The idea that the facts of history are of value as part of an exact science confined to specialists is due to a misapplication of the analogy of physical science. Physical science would still be of immense, though doubtless diminished value, even if the general public had no smattering thereof, even if Sir Robert Ball had never lectured, and Huxley had never slaughtered bishops for a Roman holiday.

The functions of physical science are mainly two. Direct utility in practical fields; and in more intellectual fields the deduction of laws of cause and effect. Now history can perform neither of these functions.

In the first place it has no practical utility like physical science. No one can by a knowledge of history, however profound, invent the steam-engine, or light a town, or cure cancer, or make wheat grow near the arctic circle. For this reason there is not in the case of history, as there is in the case of physical science, any utilitarian value at all in the accumulation of knowledge by a small number of students, repositories of secrets unknown to the vulgar.

In the second place history cannot, like physical science, deduce causal laws of general application. All attempts have failed to discover laws of cause and effect which are certain to repeat themselves in the institutions and affairs of men. The law of gravitation may be scientifically proved because it is universal and simple. But the historical law that starvation brings on revolt is not proved; indeed the opposite statement, that starvation leads to abject submission, is equally true in the light of past events. You cannot so completely isolate any historical event from its circumstances as to be able to deduce from it a law of general application. Only politicians adorning their speeches with historical arguments have this power; and even they never agree. An historical event cannot be isolated from its circumstances, any more than the onion from its skins, because an event is itself nothing but a set of circumstances, none of which will ever recur.

To bring the matter to the test, what are the laws which historical science has discovered in the last forty years, since it cleared the laboratory of those wretched literary historians? Medea has successfully put the old man into the pot, but I fail to see the fine youth whom she promised us.

Not only can no causal laws of universal application be discovered in so complex a subject, but the interpretation of the cause and effect of any one particular event cannot rightly be called scientific. The collection of facts, the weighing of evidence as to what events happened, are in some sense scientific; but not so the discovery of the causes and effects of those events. In dealing even with an affair of which the facts are so comparatively well known as those of the French Revolution, it is impossible accurately to examine the psychology of twenty-five million different persons, of whom—except a few hundreds or thousands—the lives and motives are buried in the black night of the utterly forgotten. No one, therefore, can ever give a complete or wholly true account of the causes of the French Revolution. But several imperfect readings of history are better than none at all; and he will give the best interpretation who, having discovered and weighed all the important evidence obtainable, has the largest grasp of intellect, the warmest human sympathy, the highest imaginative powers. Carlyle, at least in his greatest work, fulfilled the last two conditions, and therefore his psychology of the mob in the days of mob rule, his flame-picture of what was in very fact a conflagration, his portraits of individual characters—Louis, Sieyès, Danton, Marat, Robespierre—are in the most important sense more true than the cold analysis of the same events and the conventional summings up of the same persons by scientific historians who, with more knowledge of facts, have less understanding of Man. It was not till later in his life that Carlyle went mad with Hero-worship and ceased to understand his fellow-men with that all-embracing tolerance and sympathy which is the spiritual hall-mark of his French Revolution:

"The Fireship is old France, the old French Form of Life; her crew a generation of men. Wild are their cries and their ragings there, like spirits tormented in that flame. But, on the whole, are they not gone, O Reader? Their fireship and they, frightening the world, have sailed away; its flames and its thunders quite away, into the Deep of Time. One thing therefore History will do: pity them all, for it went hard with them all."

But the fatal weakness even of that great book is that its author knew nothing in detail about the ancien régime and the old French Form of Life. He described the course of the fire but he knew nothing of the combustibles or of the match.

How indeed could history be a science? You can dissect the body of a man, and argue thence the general structure of the bodies of other men. But you cannot dissect a mind; and if you could, you could not argue thence about other minds. You can know nothing scientifically of the twenty million minds of a nation. The few facts we know may or may not be typical of the rest. Therefore, in the most important part of its business, history is not a scientific deduction, but an imaginative guess at the most likely generalisations.

History is only in part a matter of fact. Collect the facts of the French Revolution! You must go down to Hell and up to Heaven to fetch them. The pride of the physical scientist is attacked, and often justly. But what is his pride compared with the pride of the historian who thinks that his collection of facts will suffice for a scientific study of cause and effect in human affairs? The economist, said Professor Marshall,¹ needs imagination above all to put him on the track of those causes of events which are remote or lie below the surface. Now if, as Professor Marshall tells us, imagination is necessary for the economist, by how much more is it necessary for the historian, if he wishes to discover the causes of man's action, not merely as a bread-winning individual, but in all his myriad capacities of passion and of thought. The man who is himself devoid of emotion or enthusiasm can seldom credit, and can never understand, the emotions of others, which have nonetheless played a principal part in cause and effect. Therefore, even if history were a science of cause and effect, that would be a reason not for excluding but for including emotion as part of the historian's method.

It was no unemotional historian, but the author of Sartor Resartus, who